_Jul._ Thou knowest not the one, nor I the other. Torne hast thou from me all my soul held dear! Her form, her voice, all, hast thou banish’d from me Nor dare I, wretched as I am! recall Those solaces of every grief, erewhile! I stand abased before insulting crime. I faulter like a criminal myself. The hand that hurled thy chariot o’er its wheels, That held thy steeds erect and motionless As moulten statues on some palace-gates, Shakes, as with palsied age, before thee now. Gone is the treasure of my heart, for ever, Without a father, mother, friend, or name! Daughter of Julian—Such was her delight— Such was mine too! what pride more innocent, What, surely, less deserving pangs like these, Than springs from filial and parental love! Debarred from every hope that issues forth To meet the balmy breath of early life, Her sadden’d days, all, cold and colourless, Will stretch before her their whole weary length Amid the sameness of obscurity. She wanted not seclusion, to unveil Her thoughts to heaven, cloister, nor midnight bell; She found it in all places, at all hours: While, to assuage my labours, she indulged A playfulness that shunn’d a mother’s eye, Still, to avert my perils, there arose A piety that, even from _me_, retired. [_Roderigo_, _much agitated—after a pause_. _Rod._ Such was she!—what am I!—those are the arms That are triumphant when the battle fails. O Julian, Julian! all thy former words Struck but the imbecile plumes of vanity; These, thro’ its steely coverings, pierce the heart. I ask not life nor death; but, if I live, Send my most bitter enemy to watch My secret paths, send poverty, send pain— I will add more—wise as thou art, thou knowest No foe more furious than forgiven kings. I ask not then what thou woudst never grant: May heaven, O Julian, from thy hand, receive A pardon’d man, a chasten’d criminal. _Jul._ This further curse thou hast inflicted; wretch, I cannot pardon thee. _Rod._ Thy tone, thy mien, Refute those words. _Jul._ No—I can _not_ forgive. [_Julian greatly moved_, _goes towards him_. _Rod._ Upon my knee, my conqueror, I implore— Upon the earth, before thy feet [_starts back_]—hard heart! _Jul._ Audacious! hast thou never heard that prayer And scorn’d it? ’tis the last thou shouldst repeat. Upon the earth! upon her knees! O God! _Rod._ Resemble not a wretch so lost as I: Be better; O! be happier; and pronounce it. _Jul._ I swerve not from my purpose: thou art mine, Conquered; and I have sworne to dedicate —Like a torne banner on my chapel’s roof— Thee to that power from whom thou hast rebelled. Expiate thy crimes by prayer, by penances— _Rod._ Hasten the hour of trial, speak of peace.